Tuesday, September 8, 2015

Yes, Real Men DO Write Poetry

All poetry here is copyrighted to Alan Loewen and may not be copied, duplicated, or redistributed.

These Stacks Of Ancient Books

It's too dim here and blue shadows move through the fog.
Nobody reads my poems for
    the latest fad is
    these stacks of ancient books.

Breakfast With Amy

Amy isn't finished yet
    and it's driving me crazy.
She orders my heart on a platter
    and asks for separate checks.
"Keep the change!" She leaves with
    a smile.

I watch a man and woman
    duel with words over omelets;
Their forks impromptu sabres.


You don't want to live as
    a starving artist.
They live too fast and die so young.
Despite everything,
    (the earthquake is just beginning)
    they argue about importance and God,
    but their wisdom
    is their own undoing.

William In '71

Tell me you are the man in the moon;
Tell me the truth at last
    at the worst possible moment
    while our shadows get up and walk away;
    while our memories follow them
    to the end of the sky.

As A Gift To Yourself

Proudly display your indifference, someone said
    as a gift to yourself,
    as if you were getting paid for it,
    even though time drips through clenched fingers.
Have old admonitions proven nothing,
    but that a lifetime can be lost?

This Beauty Is More Than I Can Bear

Let me explain my obsession,
    as if you really cared,
    while the darkness wraps around us
    three-dimensional hallucinations
    that have a secret meaning.
This beauty is more than I can bear.


Make a list of all your lovers and burn it.
Do it suddenly,
    silently, silently
    as your hair brushes across my face.
Memories scratch at the door.
Certainly there is only one choice
    and there is no need to speak.

The Women

You're still naive enough to think
    that you got what you deserved.
It's the women dressed in rags
     that rule the world.
You may tell them to leave you alone
    and spend time in idle pursuit,
    but your life is not your own.

The Sun Will Rise No Matter What You Do

I know I must softly say my prayers,
    and dance alone with the radio.
There's no reason to worry.
The sun will rise no matter what I do.

Beverly, 1976

We dined on rose petals, and planned to meet our Maker
    with appropriate humility.
Your words washed over me like cleansing spring water.
You were so naive about
    the things that I had to say.
Did we know it would end with ghosts?

Painful Memories

When I stop dreaming, I will pretend to know everything,
    sail across the sea,
    and make words rhyme in the face of death.
Until then, I am soothed by the knowledge of painful memories.
Sadly, someone whispers in my ear that this is the reason
    I was born.

Out In The Moonlight

In the dungeons of forgetfulness
    we practice our parries
    against shadows on the walls.
At least, let us speak of genuine love
    out in the moonlight.
Yet you keep repeating your own name
    like a mantra.
Why have you forgotten me
    when I stand in plain view?

A Beautiful Woman-Child

A beautiful woman-child
    displays her power.
She's interfering with your work
    and you are turning into sand.
Her laughter haunts you.

Forget What I Know

There is a time to forget what I know,
    pretend not to be here,
    and journey once again to the
    forest of my soul.
There is nothing wrong about
    minor adventures
    as long as I remember home.

Hunting The Unicorn
Thursday, November 20, 1997

A glint of white
Flashing mother of pearl
I stalk her through
The Wood of the Worlds

Armed with the cold iron of doubt
And melancholic nets of unbelief
For reasons unfathomable
I pursue this symbol

The old lady laughed
At the tale of my quest
"Are you the hunter," she asks
"Or the hunted?"

My quarry bursts through the brush
But not this! Let it be
A spirit of feral hate in her eye;
Not this love! Not this faith!

The spiral horn pierces deep
But no pain from this wound of love
Only the path from death to life
And fear into love

The Wizard And The Poet
Thursday, November 20, 1997

Incantation muttered, the stars
Have gelled in positions ordained.
The candles lit, the words uttered,
Sacrifices made.

The adept pauses, but no
Reality bends to firm will.
With a curse, retorts are shattered
And symbols undone as are years of labor.

The poet pauses with pen in hand
Then writes worlds into existence.
Crafting reality with artful phrase
And creating universes with words.

No demon-haunted wizard can match this power
No mumbling incantation half as strong.
Impotent all before the writing poet
Who wields his words in love and awe.

1 comment:

  1. Pretty good. At least as good as the modern poetry I see being sold in the stores; well, okay, better than THAT.